


Reason and Rationality

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Childhood Best Friends to Lovers, Did I mention pining, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grand Tour, Historical AU, How to romance, Jane Austen would be ashamed of me, Letters, Misdirection and miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining, Regency Romance, Time jump angst, for a change, happy tears, supportive parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29223603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Written for 100 fics for BLM. Historical AU with Praimfaya vibes. Clarke is a perfectly proper young lady, more or less. Bellamy is protective and considerate - everything a gentleman ought to be, in short. But they are going to have to bend the rules of propriety and write to each other if they are to survive a year apart.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 22
Kudos: 101
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	Reason and Rationality

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another fic for 100 fics for BLM! This is a historical AU loosely set in the early 19th century. Jane, I'm so sorry - I can only plead that it was written with love! Huge thanks to Zou for betaing it and cheerleading along the way. My favourite thing about S1-4 Bellarke has always been and will always be watching sensible Clarke lose her cool about any situation that involves Bellamy, so I've had a blast playing with that theme here!
> 
> *Waves to the person who prompted this* so glad I got to know you better through this awesome initiative! Had a great time writing this fic for you.

**Like prompting fics? Great. My to-do list is looking so short it's almost *sensible*. You can prompt more and help a great cause at<https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co/>**

  
  


Clarke and Bellamy are best friends. They have been best friends since they were children. Comfortable, supportive, and thoroughly _platonic_ best friends.

There’s just one problem with that narrative, Clarke thinks sourly, as she frowns across the floor at him dancing with Miss Bragg.

It rather omits the fact that Clarke is thoroughly, absolutely and pathetically in love with him.

It omits the fact that he showed up in her life just as she was on the cusp of adulthood, moving along with his mother and sister to live with his stepfather Mr Kane. It omits the fact that his freckles and warm eyes were, she often thinks, essentially her sexual awakening - well, that and a quick fumble with Miss Woods in the hay shed.

But she omits these things _deliberately_ , when she thinks of Bellamy. She has this theory that if she repeats to herself often enough the utterly unromantic details of their friendship, she will grow out of her devastating attraction to him.

It’s awful. She really hates being a woman, sometimes. She detests sitting powerless on the sidelines and watching Bellamy fall in love, unable to stride out there and make any attempt to get herself noticed by him. He may do as he pleases, coming and going, asking women to dance, and making his own choices.

But her fate is simply to curl her toes in her shoes and wait for a condescending invitation to take to the floor.

She stares out at the crowd. She knows that sitting here frowning will not make her more desirable as a dance partner. But it’s difficult not to frown, when she’s watching Bellamy fawn over the many attractive young women out there. She wishes she had the option of going to choose some fun for herself, and asking someone to dance or drink punch with her. At least then she’d have something more useful to do than sit here counting down the days until Bellamy marries some eligible young miss and is taken away from her forever.

…….

Bellamy wouldn’t exactly say that he’s counting down the minutes until this dance is over. He likes Miss Bragg well enough. She’s a beautiful woman and she smiles a good deal, although he has to admit they’ve never really managed to have a conversation of substance.

But he is counting down the minutes until his next dance. Not because he has anything against _this_ one, to be clear. But because he’s hoping to spend the next one dancing with Clarke, and that’s always the highlight of any evening as far as he’s concerned.

He wonders if that’s a little pathetic. He has half the eligible women in the county here to choose from - or so it feels like. But in all honesty he wants nothing more than to spend half an hour with Clarke. And he fully intends to spend the rest of the evening pining over her, even though she’s the only woman in attendance who sees him as totally ineligible. Who sees him as her best friend, practically a brother, maybe even part of the furniture. Young women such as Miss Bragg like to stare at him when he speaks as if he’s saying something ever so clever, as if he’s a good-looking gentleman.

But when he talks to Clarke, she prefers to laugh in his face. And yet somehow he likes it that way.

The dance ends. Thank goodness. Perhaps he ought to feel guilty about ignoring Miss Bragg in favour of daydreaming about Clarke.

He brushes that thought aside and gets on with making himself happy, even just for half an hour.

“Are you well, Princess?” He asks Clarke as he approaches her.

She frowns. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that any more, _Sir Blake_?” 

He laughs a little at her reference to their childhood games - or rather, to _Octavia’s_ childhood games which she used to drag them both into as indulgent adolescents. But he laughs, too, to cover his discomfort. There’s a reason he still calls her _Princess_ . It’s because he knows he shouldn’t really call her _Clarke_ , now she’s all grown up, but he still cannot bear to call her _Miss Griffin_. It sounds so distant and formal, he always thinks. Saying it makes him feel like he’s admitting some kind of failure. Like there is nothing special between them, no particular familiarity.

“Forgive me.” He says, not much minding whether she does. He loves getting her riled up. “Dance with me?”

“You want to dance?” She asks, eyes lighting up.

He represses the urge to sigh. She always seems so surprised when he asks her to dance, he thinks. She’s been out in society over a year now and she still appears shocked that he wants to continue their acquaintance according to the proper behaviours of young adults.

Well, in all honesty, he’d rather their relationship was a little more _improper_. But he respects Clarke, so he takes what he can.

“I want to dance with you. Come on.”

She follows him to the floor, gets stuck into the steps. But they do not dance carelessly for long. There’s something most particular Bellamy needs to tell her about tonight - something exciting, but frankly a little terrifying.

“I have news.” He begins. Best to prepare her for it, he thinks.

“News?” She asks, curious.

“Yes.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going on a tour of the continent. Marcus is sending me with the son of a friend he used to serve with. A Mr Miller. We’re - we’re to be gone about a year.” He concludes, jaw tight.

There’s a moment of silence. Or at least - there is silence between Bellamy and Clarke. Around them, the ball continues in all its raucous glory.

Then Clarke speaks.

“You must be very excited about it.” She says, tone utterly level.

Bellamy is disappointed with her reaction, he doesn’t mind admitting it. She doesn’t seem upset about him going _at all_. She’s wearing that resigned and reasonable face of hers that’s the same one she pulled last time she tore a dress - as if a ripped hem and a year apart from him are the same grief in her eyes.

Further proof if any were needed that she really does see him as part of the furniture.

“Yes. I am excited.” He agrees stiffly. “We’re to see all the historical sites and some fabulous works of art, I understand. But - a year is a long time to be gone.”

She nods. “Yes. But this is a great opportunity for you. It’s very kind of your stepfather.”

“Yes.”

Another beat of silence. Bellamy wonders if this could possibly have gone any worse. He was expecting at least a tear or two, if he’s being honest. But he hates this stiff, cold formality. He hates that this feels like yet another step towards adulthood, and away from being carefree youngsters together. He’s going on a tour, as a well-bred young gentleman ought. Clarke is staying here, and learning how to be silent and dull, as a proper young lady ought.

It makes him want to scream.

But he can’t scream, of course, because they’re in the middle of a crowded ballroom. Managing his temper has never been his greatest talent but he cannot lose the plot now. He takes some deep, careful breaths and fishes for something to say.

“I am most looking forward to Athens. To see the Acropolis will be quite something.” He offers.

“Yes. You must be very excited.” She repeats.

He wants to throttle her. Honestly, he does. What has happened? Is she so very grown up, now, that she is capable only of repeating empty banalities as the other ladies do? What the hell has happened to his best friend?

He talks stiffly about the wonders of Europe for the rest of the dance. Half an hour with Clarke has never felt so long.

…….

Clarke is trying to be happy for Bellamy. She’s trying _so very hard_ to be happy for Bellamy.

But frankly, she’s furious. She’s furious with him and with the situation. She understands that going on tours is the kind of thing young gentlemen do. But she is devastated all the same at the thought of losing him.

She’s jealous, too. Jealous that he will get to go on the kind of great adventure she can only dream of, while she must stay at home trapped by duty and propriety. Jealous to think of all the young ladies he might meet in his time abroad - although she knows that, logically, he’s more likely to come home and marry dull Miss Martin right under her nose.

No. That was uncharitable. She mustn’t go around criticising every young woman Bellamy ever looks twice at. Unkindness doesn’t suit her - it simply makes her feel ashamed. But Bellamy has always had a way of getting under her skin and trumping her precious self-control.

Most of all, she’s furious with Bellamy for the way he told her. The way he just shared his news in the middle of the dance floor, where she could not cry or let out her mixed emotions for fear of causing a scene. She really holds that against him, that he sprung it on her like that. As if she was nothing to him - just some passing acquaintance - and as if they did not have years of friendship behind them.

She really hates the shift in their relationship, since they grew up. Everything seems so much harder now they’re trying to behave like proper young adults all the time.

She allows herself to make a small scene, when she gets home. In the privacy of her room, she kicks her shoes off, throws herself down onto her bed still fully clothed, and weeps. She punches her pillow a few times, imagines it’s Bellamy’s face. His stupid emotionless face when he sprung the news on her earlier this evening.

No one warned her falling for her best friend would hurt this much.

She should stop crying soon. She knows she should. She’s a sensible young woman, damn it. But now she’s let the floodgates open, they just won’t stop. One whole year without Bellamy. Twelve months without his teasing _Princess_ , without his kind smile, without his warm hands burning through her gloves in a dance.

And every day, another day closer to losing him. A day wasted when there must be precious few days left before one or both of them will be married and they will be torn apart forever.

She startles when she hears her bedroom door open, sits herself up in a damp, flustered heap.

It’s her mother, stepping towards the bed with a sad smile.

“It’s only a year, sweetheart. That’s nothing compared to all the years you’ve been friends.”

“It’s not that.” Clarke shakes her head, scattering tears. “It’s - it’s -” She gulps, tries again. “He told me like I wasn’t important. He just dropped it into a conversation while we were dancing. He told me as if I don’t _matter_ to him.”

Her mother reaches out to hug her tight. “You and I both know that’s not true. His mother tells me the first thing he said when Marcus told him about this tour was that he would miss you.”

Clarke snorts damply. She’s pretty sure her mother invented that kind lie.

“He’s going next week. Tuesday. I know you’re almost too old for my advice these days, Clarke. But let me give you one last piece. Go and make things right with him before he leaves.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. I know you’re upset but you’re such a brave girl, Clarke. Tomorrow you’ll pull yourself together and go to see him.”

“No. I mean - I _can’t_ . Don’t you see, mother? He’s a young man now. I’m in long dresses. I need to stop walking over there like it’s nothing. It’s not proper any more.” She gulps. “Bellamy has made it quite clear that he wants us to have a more…. _Grown up_ friendship now.”

Her mother pulls back from the hug, frowning deeply, and looks her right in the eyes. “I won’t tell you what to do. Telling one’s daughters what to do is a waste of everyone’s time, in my opinion. But promise me you’ll at least think about it?”

Clarke nods. She can do that. Thinking about things is what she does best.

That and weeping pathetically over her best friend, it seems.

…….

Bellamy knows he ought to be happy. And he _is_ happy, more or less. He’s setting out on the adventure of a lifetime, tomorrow.

But he’s feeling deeply miserable about one specific thing. He hasn’t managed to say a proper goodbye to Clarke. He waved at her at church yesterday, but he’s not willing to leave it at that. One small wave is not a suitable leavetaking for a year apart, thank you very much.

He just doesn’t know what to do. She hasn’t come to see him on one of her walks all week. And he’s tried riding out over to Griffin Manor but not seen hide nor hair of her. He’s been sort of aware for a while, now, that they’ve been having fewer of the informal meetings that used to characterise their comfortable friendship. But never in his life before has he gone an entire week without bumping into her. He’s on the point of begging his sister to invite her over for a play date, honestly, although they are all too old for such things.

The problem is, he fears he’s left it too late for that, now.

“Are you feeling ready for tomorrow?” Marcus asks him over breakfast this morning.

He nods. “Yes. All packed. Thank you again for arranging this, Marcus.”

Marcus waves a careless hand. “You deserve this and more, Bellamy. You’re a good lad and I know you’ll make the most of it.”

“As long as you take care, too.” His mother adds.

He grins. He really does have the best family in the world. His mother has always loved him and his sister as best as she can, but these last few years with the world’s kindest stepfather have been wonderful.

He really hates the thought of growing up, when he looks at it like that.

“Have you said all your goodbyes?” His sister pipes up.

He frowns. “Yes.” He lies carefully. “I rode out with Monty and Jasper on Saturday.”

His mother narrows her eyes at him. “And have you said goodbye to Clarke?”

“I saw her at church yesterday.” He says, tone too level. It sounds like an excuse even to his own ears.

“Yes, and waved at her like a schoolboy.” Octavia teases.

“You could go and call on her today.” His mother says, light, spreading marmalade on a slice of toast.

There’s a beat of silence. The scrape of knives on toast. The sound of breathing, a little too rapid. Ah - that’s his _own_ breathing.

“ _Call on her_? As - as a gentleman calls on a lady?” He asks.

“She is a lady, is she not? And you are a gentleman?”

He bites down hard, jaw clenched, wondering what on Earth he is supposed to say now. Is his mother suggesting that it would be OK if he did want to call on Clarke in that way? If he wanted to court her, perhaps?

Is she suggesting that she thinks Clarke might be open to the idea, too?

“Do you think that a good idea?” He asks mildly.

“I think it a better idea than sitting here frowning at your toast.” She says smartly. “Come on, Bellamy. She’s _Clarke_. The two of you have been joined at the hip since we moved here. You can’t tell me you’re about to leave for the year with nothing more than a wave.”

“She’d like you to call on her.” Octavia joins in. “She looked very out of sorts yesterday, I thought. She must be worried about you going away.”

He wishes that were true. He suspects she just had a stomach ache, in all honesty.

“Marcus? What do you think?” He has a great deal of respect for his stepfather.

“I think that if you’re not out of the house by ten I shall drag you over to Griffin Manor myself.” He says, mock threatening, brows raised.

Bellamy nods. That’s that one decided, then. It seems he is destined to pay a call on his best friend. An actual formal _call_ with gloves and tea and chaperones.

Good God. What in the name of heaven is one supposed to wear for an occasion like that?

……..

Clarke seriously hopes she’s made the right choice. She’s never been nervous about walking to The Arbours before. But the circumstances feel different from normal. There’s something about the knowledge that Bellamy is going away on his tour that makes things feel awkward. He really must be all grown up, now, if he’s off on that sort of adventure.

And if there’s one thing she knows, it’s that young ladies do not call on young gentlemen. So what she’s doing right now is thoroughly improper.

She sighs, climbs the stile that borders Kane’s land. There’s nothing to be done about it now. She’s almost there. And frankly, she thinks her mother and father should not have encouraged her to read novels about the likes of Elizabeth Bennet if they didn’t want her to start following some of those heroines’ more questionable choices.

She arrives at the front door of The Arbours. She knocks, loudly, then tries to shake out her petticoats.

It’s a lost cause. They’re three inches deep in mud. At least three is not six, she tells herself. Some of her heroines have made worse scenes than this before now.

“Miss Griffin.” The butler greets her with a familiar smile.

“Smith. Good morning. Is - ah - is Mr Blake home?” Best not call him Bellamy when she’s already breaking every rule of decorum, she decides.

“You’re just in time. I hear a rumour he was about to ride out and call on you.” Smith says with a wink.

Clarke allows herself a small smile. Bellamy, about to call on her? As in about to ride to Griffin Manor and jump fences until she ran out to meet him, or actually about to _call on her_?

She follows Smith into the house, waits in the drawing room. She’s feeling much more comfortable now she’s actually here. She’s been in this house a thousand times and no one will mind that she traipsed here through the mud, she tells herself. These family friends do not expect her to be so ladylike every second of every day.

“Clarke. Hello.” Bellamy strides into the room, almost falling over himself in his eagerness, Clarke thinks.

She feels a wide smile splitting her face. She just can’t help it. Coming to see him was absolutely the right thing to do, she decides. He’s grinning too, but she tears her eyes away from his face to take in the rest of his appearance. He’s not wearing the scruffy tan breeches and old tweed coat he normally wears to go riding about the place, she notes. He’s wearing a rather smart pair of black breeches and a navy coat she thinks might be new.

Huh. Maybe he really was planning to call on her.

That’s what gives her the courage to be at least somewhat honest with him.

“Morning. I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this. I just really wanted to say goodbye before you leave.”

“I don’t mind at all.” He rushes to assure her. “I was just on my way to see you for the same reason. I can’t imagine leaving without a proper goodbye.”

She nods. She mustn’t cry now, she tells herself. “I’m really going to miss you.” She admits, throat thick.

To her surprise, he steps forward and engulfs her in a hug. A big hug, warm and fierce. They’ve not touched like this for _years_ , she notes, as she relaxes into his arm. The last time she got a hug like this she was sixteen years old and she’d just fallen out of a tree and he was relieved she had only hurt her wrist.

She hugs him back. She’s no fool - moments like this should be treasured while they last. She squeezes her arms tight around his waist and breathes in the scent of him. She doesn’t care how improper this looks, she’s determined to cling to him as long as she can. This hug is going to have to last her a whole year.

“I’m going to miss you so much.” He whispers fervently.

She hugs him tighter. That seems like a good response.

At length, he pulls away from the hug. Clarke waits for him to flush, perhaps, or for him to become the awkwardly proper young man she has seen him growing into these last couple of years.

To her delight, he does nothing of the sort.

“Shall we take a walk in the gardens?” He asks.

She nods at once. A walk in the gardens sounds like just the thing. It will be less stiff and formal to chat while they walk there. She has a feeling that if they stand in the drawing room any longer someone will decide they are probably old enough to need a chaperone, now.

Bellamy is quiet, as they walk out to the gardens. Clarke takes her cue from him and remains wordless, too. But it doesn’t feel like the horrific, cold silence of that dance last week. This feels more natural, comfortable. She has a feeling Bellamy is just gathering his thoughts.

She’s proven right when they’re out of sight of the house, strolling alongside the hedge of the rose garden.

“I wish you could come with me.” He mutters. “As an artist I am sure you’d appreciate all the sights.”

She snorts. It’s kind of him to always compliment her art. She’s simply dabbling in watercolours as is expected of an accomplished young lady. Perhaps it would be fair to say she dabbles more _determinedly_ than most, but all the same, she cannot claim to be a great artist.

She cannot claim that, because she’s a _woman_.

“That’s not how the world works.” She points out sadly. “You’re a young gentleman so you must go and travel. I am a young lady so I must stay home and practise the pianoforte.”

He laughs. “When was the last time you _touched_ the pianoforte, Clarke? Be truthful.”

She smarts. “I do my best.” She bites out.

Silence falls. She lets it. She hates feeling so inadequate with Bellamy, these days. She hates that he must be looking for a ladylike, accomplished wife, when really she’s just a hellion.

“I’m sorry. I meant nothing by it.” He murmurs, turning to look earnestly down at her. “You know I would rather hear about you enjoying your watercolours than hating the pianoforte any day of the week. If you are to be stuck at home while I’m on my travels, I would at least wish for you to be doing something you enjoy.”

She nods, but her heart is not in it.

“I am excited about this trip.” Bellamy says, a little defensive, she thinks. “You know how I feel about history. But it was easy to wish to tour the continent when it seemed unlikely ever to happen. Now I’m actually _going_ , I almost regret wishing for it.” He laughs stiffly.

“You do?”

“Yes. It’s a big event, isn’t it? A big change. And it feels like - like a sign that we’re all growing up. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

“I’ve been feeling that way, too.” She admits.

“I really do wish you could come with me.”

She brightens. He wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t mean it. And yes, she’s aware he probably only wants her familiar friendship, or wants the comfort of a little piece of home. She’s aware it’s hardly some romantic declaration.

But he sounds earnest. He sounds _sad_ . And he’s walking through the rose garden in a new coat because he was going to actually _call on her_.

She gathers her courage. It’s time to be brave - or at least as brave as any proper young lady is allowed to be.

No, she decides. She’s going to be even braver than that.

“What if we were to write to each other?” She asks, before she can lose her nerve.

He stops dead on the path, turns to look her right in the eyes. 

“You’d do that?” He asks urgently. “You mean it? I would like that more than anything.”

“Then it’s settled.” She says, as if it’s so simple.

“You’re sure? You - you do understand what you’re suggesting? We’d have to be careful. Send everything through the post office so your parents don’t see.”

She swallows hard, gives a brisk nod. She knows that her reputation would be in shreds if anyone were to find out about this. She understands that family friendship will not save her if the gossips hear that she has been writing to a gentleman. She’s fully aware that this is hardly the most sensible decision of her life.

But it’s not totally irrational, she maintains. She trusts Bellamy to keep their secret safe. She trusts herself, too, to have the bravery and wit to pull this off.

But more than anything? She cannot let him go without a fight. Not to Europe, not to marriage, not to some future that does not include her. If this is the only way she can fight for him, then this is what she shall do.

He laughs out loud, a sound somewhere between delight and relief. And then before she knows it he’s taking her bare hands, spinning her around and around on the spot. She tramples a few of Mr Kane’s roses in the process, but she supposes this is probably not a morning for worrying about such things.

“I’m going to share everything with you.” Bellamy tells her, fierce. “I’m going to tell you every last detail and send you my poor sketches of the sights we see. You had best prepare for a _deluge_ of letters.”

“I cannot wait.” She tells him, and embarrassingly it’s the truth.

They are no longer spinning, now. They’re standing, hand in hand, amidst the roses. And just for a minute, Clarke allows herself to dream. _I’m going to share everything with you_ , he said.

Just for one precious heartbeat, she allows herself to imagine that’s a promise to share his life with her, too.

…….

Bellamy is in high spirits, as he sets out the next morning. He’s going on the adventure he has always dreamed of. And whilst a year away from everything he knows and everyone he loves sounds difficult, he will have the solace of letters. He’s absolutely thrilled to learn that Clarke cares for him enough to risk writing to him, and that’s almost enough to overcome the sadness he feels at the thought of not seeing her beloved face for an entire year.

He hopes she really does write. He’s going to be devastated if she doesn’t follow through on this beautiful plan.

She will, he tells himself firmly. She seemed so genuine in the rose garden, when she said she couldn’t wait to hear from him on his travels. He has to admit that he almost proposed marriage to her there and then.

Maybe he should have done, he frets. Maybe she’ll be married by the time he gets home.

No. That’s not very likely, he thinks. There is no one living in the area she seems particularly interested in, and he understands her family have no immediate plans to go up to town. And besides which, he likes to think it must mean _something_ that she plans to write to him. Maybe this is the chance he’s been waiting for to shift their relationship in a new direction and show her there could be more than just childish friendship between them.

He’s to spend the night in Portsmouth before sailing to the continent tomorrow. He arrives in good time, locates the inn, and makes the acquaintance of his travelling companion. Mr Miller seems like a friendly sort - a little quiet, perhaps, but kind and with a ready smile. They’ll do well together, Bellamy decides.

Bellamy is just on the point of suggesting to Miller that they should sit down for supper when a maid knocks at the door of their rooms.

“A letter for Mr Blake, sirs. Just arrived by express.”

He leaps to his feet at once. A letter sent express? How peculiar. Has some terrible accident happened at home? Is Marcus trying to summon him back before he has even departed?

His panic is calmed the moment he sees the familiar, curling script. That’s not Marcus, nor his mother, nor his sister.

That’s Clarke.

If she’s sending letters express before he’s even left the country, this correspondence really will bankrupt them both, he thinks. In this moment, he finds that he does not greatly care, though. He’s too busy feeling almost _moved_ that he is apparently important enough to get calm, rational Clarke sending an urgent letter by express.

“Is everything in order, Blake?” Miller asks mildly.

“Yes. Yes, quite alright I believe.” 

He takes the letter from the maid with a word of thanks, starts ripping it open. Sure enough, there is no bad news inside. Just a brief, heartfelt message that brings happy tears to his eyes.

_Bellamy_

_I hope you do not object to me making my beginning in such a way. It hardly seems worth addressing you as “Mr Blake” if we are to be improper correspondents. I hope you do not object, either, to the fuss of sending this express. I thought it important to send you a note to take with you on your travels wishing you a safe journey._

_I hope this tour is everything you have dreamed of. I hope your companion is kind and pleasant company. I hope the wonders of Athens and Rome do not disappoint. But most of all I pray you stay safe and well and happy, and that you remember our arrangement and tell me all your news._

_Sincerely yours_

_Clarke_

He brushes away those happy tears, feels his cheeks aching from smiling too wide. This trip is going to be spectacular, he decides. He’s going to have the time of his life. And he’s going to take this opportunity to deepen his relationship with Clarke along the way. He can’t quite believe she has done this - that she has actually sent him a going away letter before he has even left port. And now he supposes he will find himself penning a reply to her, when really he has no news at all except that the road from home to Portsmouth is full of as many pot holes as ever.

“Someone special back home?” Miller’s teasing voice breaks into Bellamy’s train of thought.

Bellamy frowns. He doesn’t know how to answer that. Clarke _is_ someone special, but if they are to keep their correspondence a secret he can hardly broadcast the details of it to his travelling companion.

Huh. Perhaps he should have thought of that before he ripped the letter open right in front of Miller’s eyes.

He’s never been great at thinking straight where Clarke is concerned. So it is that he gives up on subtlety and decides to embrace the moment and trust his new friend.

“Yes. Very special. I - I’m hoping to marry her one day. I’d appreciate your discretion.”

Miller laughs, slaps him heartily on the shoulder. “Who would I tell, Blake? The marbles of Athens? Your secret is quite safe with me. I wish you all the luck in the world.”

……..

Clarke is feeling rather cheerful, for the first month or so that Bellamy is away. She’s had a steady stream of letters from him ever since that first one sent from Portsmouth. He really has kept to his promise to tell her everything, even when he has nothing much to tell. She now knows every detail of the state of the roads in Belgium, at least. She suspects that is information which will never be of much use to her, but she loves Bellamy, so she thanks him for his thorough letters and responds in kind.

She’s adopted the habit of writing part of her letter each day, even if only a short paragraph about the scene she has worked in watercolours that morning. And then, when the sheet is full after perhaps a week, she seals it and carries it to the post office.

If her parents notice that she is taking even more morning walks than ever, they do not question her about it. She supposes they probably think she needs the fresh air to soothe the grief of missing Bellamy, or some such thing. Or else they really do believe that she has chosen to model herself entirely on Elizabeth Bennet. So it is that Clarke manages to collect her letters from Bellamy from the post office without notice, and send her own replies in return.

When she is found out, it is not how she expected. And yet, she must acknowledge, it is entirely her own fault.

She’s been making a point of going to see Octavia more often since Bellamy’s departure, in part because she knows his sister must be missing him, but largely to ask for news. It would look odd, she knows, if she appeared to have no interest in hearing about him. That would draw suspicion.

This morning she visits Octavia, sits calmly opposite her friend to drink tea. It really is strange to be taking refreshments together rather than running around the fields, Clarke muses. She fears she still has not got the hang of such things as decorum and adulthood.

“What news of Bellamy?” She asks carefully.

Octavia narrows her eyes, just a little. “He’s travelling through Germany at the moment. Says the weather is something awful. Then he plans to head to Vienna.”

Clarke nods. “And what of his travelling companion? A Mr Miller, was it?”

“They are firm friends already.” Octavia says easily. “They bonded over pushing their carriage out of a rut in the road near Antwerp, I understand.”

Clarke supposes that’s her cue to giggle. “That sounds like quite the thing to strengthen a friendship.”

As it happens, she heard a slightly different version of the story. She heard that was the first time the two men had ever had cross words with each other, and that Bellamy was quite ashamed to have lost his temper with Mr Miller. She heard, in fact, that the bonding experience was actually drinking brandy together and sharing apologies later that evening.

Octavia nods. She takes a deep breath. She lets it out again, loud, and then swallows even louder.

Clarke frowns. Is her friend feeling unwell?

“Whatever is the matter, Octavia?”

“Something’s going on.” Octavia says firmly. “I cannot work out quite what. But you are not reacting to Bellamy’s news as I would expect, Clarke. When I told you about the stuck carriage I expected you to have a flood of questions about whether Bellamy was well and whether they have planned their route quite carefully enough. You never seem as… curious as I would think you should.”

Clarke draws breath, tries to answer.

Octavia presses on before she can. “I believe there are two possible explanations for this. Either you are not curious because you already know all his news yourself. Or you are _pretending_ not to be curious because you are in love with him but feeling nervous about telling me.”

Clarke swallows hard. She is hardly feeling ready to tell Octavia she is right on both counts, but that is the honest truth.

“He’s been funny about you these last few months as well. Evasive, I would say.” Octavia muses quietly. “He doesn’t ask after you in his letters very much. He tells me to visit you and see that you’re well, but he doesn’t ask after your news.”

“Perhaps he realises I have no news, living the dull life of a young country gentlewoman.” Clarke mutters.

“And yet all his life he’s wanted to share every silly joke with you. I rather think there is a different explanation.” Octavia says firmly.

Clarke sighs. She does not think of Octavia as a solver of problems. But it is true that she is the person who knows both her and Bellamy best, so perhaps it is no surprise that she has put these particular pieces together. Damn it. She thought they were safe from being foiled by someone who loves them both so much.

“We’ve been corresponding. Please don’t tell anyone.” Clarke begs, hating herself for being in this weak position.

“Why? Worried you’ll be forced to marry him?” Octavia asks, sharp. “Or worried he’ll be forced to marry you?”

“Octav-”

“Be calm. I won’t say a word. You know I won’t. I want you both to be happy. But I do find myself thinking you might truly be happiest if I went straight to Marcus and had him tell Bellamy to do the honourable thing.”

“I wouldn’t want to see him forced into something he does not want.” Clarke pleads.

Octavia snorts. “I am quite convinced it’s _exactly_ what he wants, even if the two of you are still reaching that conclusion. And I cannot resist adding that you should have thought of this before you started writing to him. But enough. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you managing it?”

“I spend a lot of time walking to the post office.” Clarke admits, allowing herself to begin to laugh at the situation.

Octavia is laughing now, too. “I bet you do. Tell me, are his letters to you much better than those he sends me? Are they the letters of a lover or does he simply list the sights he has seen?”

Clarke hesitates, wonders how to answer this question. “They are the letters of a friend. He tells me more about his reactions to what he has seen, I suppose. Yours read more like a travel guide. Mine perhaps a…. Journal.”

“I won’t ask to see them. I don’t want to know how my brother writes when he’s trying to learn how to make love.”

Clarke frowns, considers those words for a moment. Can it be true? Is Octavia onto something? Is it perhaps the case that she is not the only one here with more than friendly feelings - but rather that she and Bellamy are both still trying to understand how to proceed?

…….

The first weeks away from home are hard, Bellamy finds. He hopes that it will get easier with time, perhaps. He’s never been away from home for so long. He did not have a university education - he chose instead to work with a tutor or with Marcus’ library at home. His stepfather did offer to send him up to university, but Bellamy refused. He doesn’t like the idea of his stepfather feeling obligated to act as if he were truly his son. And besides which, he would rather the money went towards Octavia’s dowry.

He suspects that his lifelong refusal to take Marcus’ money is the reason the man has arranged such a generous trip for him now, though - and almost without consulting him. That’s a thought that makes him miss home all the more.

As well as the homesickness, he finds that the itinerary in the early part of the tour is not to his taste. That makes him feel ungrateful, so he tries not to dwell on it. But frankly he would rather be in England with his family and Clarke than touring wet, rutted roads in Belgium and Germany and Austria.

There are wet, rutted roads enough back home.

He feels rather lighter, when they arrive in Vienna. This is a bright and shining city where they can rest a while without having to extract the carriage from the mud. It’s a city famed for its music, which is hardly his passion, but there is fascinating history here too and he is determined to enjoy himself. He _ought_ to enjoy himself - it’s practically his duty, when Marcus has gone to such trouble and expense to arrange all this.

Then his mood lifts even further when they arrive in their accommodation to find a bundle of letters from home. Miller’s parents have written, and there is another letter he says simply is from a friend. Bellamy has one from his sister, and one from his mother with a contribution from Marcus.

But of course, he starts with the letter from Clarke.

_Bellamy_

_I hope this letter will arrive in Vienna before you do. I like to think of it waiting to greet you as a friend or a piece of home. How was the last leg of your journey? Is the weather still poor as it was in Belgium? I suppose by the time I receive your answer to that question you shall be half way to Athens._

_Let me tell you a little of the scene I have worked on today with my watercolours. I am making an attempt at the rose garden on The Arbours. I think I shall present it to your stepfather as an apology for trampling his roses that day if it turns out prettily. For now it is too soon to say._

_You must listen well when you attend the concerts in Vienna. I shall appreciate your opinion on my playing of the pianoforte when you return home! We both know that I am sorely in need of your guidance. You must therefore give Herr Beethoven your careful attention. On a more serious note, I know you must be eager to reach the Mediterranean part of your tour. Yet I do hope you will find something to entertain you in that entertaining city._

_I took tea with your sister this morning. She has kept her word about keeping our secret, as far as I am aware. No one has cut me dead in the village to date. I am sorry I did not conceal it better, Bellamy. Please forgive me. You must know I would never wish to put you in an uncomfortable situation. We talked about the fashions for sleeves while we drank our tea. I must say I do not know whether to be more proud of us or ashamed. When did we become young ladies of a sort to care about sleeves?_

_I will fill this sheet and send it today. I am determined of it. I must have this letter waiting for you when you reach Vienna. May I perhaps ask after Mr Miller? How does your friendship with him progress? Have you again sworn at him in a thunderstorm since last you wrote? Does he care for the music of Vienna? Does he care for poor watercolours of the Surrey countryside? If so, pray do tell him I will send one as a token of my thanks, so long as he keeps you safe on your travels!_

_Sincerely yours_

_Clarke_

Bellamy is grinning from ear to ear by the time he has finished reading. That is always the way with letters from Clarke - she never fails to make him smile. Every line that she writes makes him feel joy, even the lines that are foolish or perhaps ridiculous. He loves the teasing way she talks about playing the piano, and hopes that is a sign she has forgiven him for criticising her least impressive accomplishment just before he left.

Most of all, he loves the idea that she is painting the rose garden. He likes to think that might not be unrelated to the happy memory they share there of hugging and making plans to write to each other.

He forces himself to stop smiling so uselessly and reach for paper. He has not actually unpacked his trunk, yet, but he wants to make a start on replying to Clarke right away. He cannot bear to leave her worried that he might be angry with her for Octavia figuring out their scheme. He knows that it is not logical to rush and write to her straight away - it will still be some time before the letter winds its way back home. But he feels a pressing need to reassure her all the same.

He therefore sits at the desk in their rented rooms and takes paper, pen and ink from his satchel.

  
  


_Dearest Clarke_

_I forbid you from wasting any more time or ink on apologising. Please do not upset yourself with worrying about what Octavia does or does not know. She is unlikely to tell anyone - I should think I know my own sister on this front. Yet if she does tell our secret, we shall simply face the consequences together. Above all, know that I forgive you for letting the news out. I believe she would have learned the truth sooner or later regardless._

_In truth, I am relieved to be in Vienna. I am enjoying the chance to travel and broaden my experience of the world, but I must own it has been more difficult than I expected. Home feels so very far away. I wonder if perhaps this is why Marcus sent me away. Perhaps he believed it was time for me to grow into a man and learn to live without my family and friends. I find that I do not greatly like it, to be candid. I am discovering that I am a man very much attached to the people and places I know and love._

_Yet I do like travelling for the opportunities it offers to learn new things. I am full of anticipation at the thought of exploring this city in particular. The buildings are magnificent and put London to shame. Perhaps I shall attempt to procure prints of the palaces to show you when we return. You and I both know that I am no connoisseur of music, but all the same I shall not miss the opportunity to listen to the greatest composers in the world conducting their own works. I can bring home prints of the buildings, but I fear I cannot bring home for you a performance in a jar!_

_I wish you the best with your watercolours. I believe you are too modest. I am quite certain your impression of the rose garden will be beautiful. I imagine the first of them are beginning to bloom, now? Pray smell them for me! Yet again, I find myself reflecting that I am missing the familiar features of home._

_I am missing you most of all. Miller is a fine gentleman and we are getting along splendidly. But he is not you. Candidly, Clarke, I believe that our writing to one another is the best idea you have ever had - and that is quite the compliment, for you have had many fine ideas in the years we have known one another! Thank you for sending your letter to meet me on my arrival here. It was a most welcome greeting._

_Sincerely yours_

_Bellamy_

He reads back through the letter, checks that it is sound. He has an unfortunate habit of letting his thoughts run away with him when he’s writing to Clarke, eager to get everything on the page and spill his feelings everywhere. And it occurs to him, now, that he’s addressed this letter differently from normal. _Dearest Clarke_. That’s possibly a little much, he fears. That’s rather transparently affectionate.

He sighs. It would be a waste of paper to rewrite the whole thing now. And perhaps that is only an excuse - perhaps he really does want to be brave and see what happens if he lets her read that he thinks of her as his _dearest Clarke_.

Sod it all. Being sensible is not his calling in life. And he’s been regretting not saying something of the state of his heart since the second they walked out of that rose garden unengaged, he must admit.

He seals the letter and sets it on the side for posting.

  
  


…….

Clarke finds that she is feeling surprisingly cheery, as spring lengthens into summer.

She’s in good health, as is everyone she loves. The weather is fine, so she’s taking a long walk at this very moment. Her parents have bought her some oil paints to work with, which is frankly the most exciting thing that has ever happened to her - or at least, the most exciting thing that doesn’t involve Bellamy, she thinks wryly. But she loves the oil paints. She loves experimenting with them on canvas almost as much as she loves what they mean - that her parents take her art seriously, and that they embrace the idea of her pursuing this passion rather than fretting over the other fashionable accomplishments expected of a lady.

She misses Bellamy, of course. This is just the time of year when they would have been tearing around the fields together, in years gone by, with Octavia running urgently along behind. But she feels more bittersweet about missing him than the simple sadness she felt when he first departed. She honestly feels that they have been able to communicate rather well through their letters, and that they are rekindling some of the easy intimacy they used to share when they were younger - only with a slightly more mature shared outlook on the world.

And, on a more fundamental level, she just loves opening every letter that begins to his _dearest Clarke_.

She knows that’s silly. He probably addresses his letters to Octavia much the same way. He’s just saying he cares for her a lot - not _how_ he cares for her. But at least if he cares for her as a friend or some kind of family connection, that’s something. And sometimes, while she talks with Octavia or when she rereads Bellamy’s letters curled up in bed late at night, she allows herself to believe just for a few seconds that through these letters he might be coming round to seeing her as a viable candidate for his future wife.

No. She mustn’t get her hopes up.

Her walk is drawing to a close, now. She’s going to stop by the post office and see if there is a letter from Bellamy.

“Anything for me, Simmonds?” She asks the aged postmaster.

“Yes, Miss Griffin. Most peculiar. There’s a letter for you, but that’s not all there is.”

With those cryptic words, he vanishes into the sorting office, and leaves Clarke standing by the door with baited breath. Whatever can he mean? _Most peculiar_ ? _That’s not all there is_?

He’s back seconds later. He’s holding something that looks about the size of a letter. But as he gets closer and hands it over, Clarke can see that there is something more here. The letter is much thicker than usual, and stiff, as if wrapped around some kind of board.

She says her thanks and flees from the post office feeling rather overexcited. She forces herself to secrete the mysterious package in her dress pocket and stride home. Much more sensible to open this in the privacy of her own bedroom than out here in the village high street. And yes, it would be fair to say that she is not always her most sensible self when Bellamy is involved. But on this occasion she is determined to do nothing foolish to expose their secret.

She arrives home. She bolts up the stairs. She takes the letter from her deep pocket, grateful that her mother respects her taste in practical clothing.

And then she sets about satisfying her curiosity.

The letter is Bellamy’s normal letter, more or less. She sees that at once. It’s one sheet, closely written through, probably overflowing with personality that pours off the page, if Bellamy’s usual letters are anything to go by.

But it’s wrapped around a small piece of board. And sitting next to that piece of board so as not to crease is the most exquisite little print of Athens. _The Acropolis_ , it is titled, and sure enough it depicts some ruined temples atop a hill.

Clarke finds that she is crying happy tears. She knows that’s silly. But souvenirs like this are not exactly given away to tourists. Bellamy has shopped for this, and spent money on it, and put effort into getting her a gift. Most of all she’s crying for the sheer joy of having received a present from so far away. It’s as if he is showing her he really did mean it, when he said he wished she could go with him. Like he’s trying to send some part of his adventure home to her.

She’s moved, too, because no one else has a gift from him. Octavia received a letter from Athens only yesterday - just that. A letter. No print of the view.

Dare she begin to hope that prints of Athens might be an unconventional kind of courting gift?

She reads the letter urgently. He doesn’t say much about the gift, only that he wishes she could see the view so he felt the need to send some poor imitation of it. But that’s rather typical of Bellamy, she muses affectionately. To make big gestures but not know what to say about them. When he was seventeen, he walked to Griffin Manor in a rainstorm because Cook had made Clarke’s favourite teacakes and he didn’t want her to miss out on them when the weather had curtailed her plans to visit. And then, she recalls, he walked straight home again before she had even finished one sentence of thanks.

So yes. She has to admit that, if Bellamy were courting a young lady, she imagines he would do it by sending her gifts but then saying scarcely six words about them.

Yet she still struggles to believe that’s what is happening, here and now. For all that she considers herself a confident woman, she does not truly believe Bellamy could look at her that way. She who is a poor pianist and an indifferent embroiderer. And yes, perhaps it does seem logical that this might be his way of courting, and Clarke does like to think logically about problems.

But she’s always been less rational about situations where Bellamy is involved.

…….

Bellamy has a problem. An issue. A most unexpected difficulty.

He simply cannot stop finding gifts he wishes to send home to Clarke.

He just meant to send her that print from Athens and then leave well enough alone. But now he’s in Rome, and it is beautiful, and there are artists selling their sketches on every street corner, booksellers spilling over with selections of engravings. And he has yet to get to Paris - that is destined to be the last stop on their tour, and he knows he simply must buy her some collected copies of the great art works in that city.

He can’t send her too many gifts. That wouldn’t be appropriate. They are not _actually_ engaged, for all that they are writing to each other with such beautiful intimacy and honesty.

He’ll just buy her one more print here, he decides. Or perhaps - perhaps a very small _selection_ of prints. And then he can get her a real book in Paris and carry it home with him in person. That will work out perfectly - if she accepts the proposal he intends to make on his return home, he can give it to her as an engagement gift. And if she does not, he can cry a little - or a lot - and then give her the gift to show that there are no hard feelings and he still treasures her friendship.

Right. Well. He sincerely hopes she chooses the first option.

He clears his throat, gestures to a small bookseller on the corner. “Can we take a look at their wares, Miller?”

“Shopping for the sweetheart _again_?” Miller teases.

Bellamy grins. There is no point in hiding it, at this point. “Perhaps I shall buy a book for myself.”

“And perhaps I am the Pope himself.” Miller jokes.

“I have bought myself a good many books on this tour.” Bellamy defends himself, because it is the truth.

“Yes. But when you are shopping for yourself, you look serious. You have this heaviness about you as if you are counting out your coins carefully. When you are browsing for gifts for _her_ you look like an excited child.”

Bellamy flushes. He fears that might be true. But that’s no bad thing, surely? If the woman he hopes to make his wife inspires such joy and good humour in him?

“Her name is Clarke.” He mutters quietly. He figures Miller deserves that much at least.

Miller laughs. “I know that, Blake. I’ve known that since Frankfurt. Do you recall that night we had to share a room at that inn? You said her name in your sleep a great many times. You really ought to be embarrassed.”

Bellamy is not embarrassed, as it happens. He’s laughing, and smiling, and perhaps also _glowing_.

He’s found a new confidence on his travels, and he rather thinks it suits him. He can only hope Clarke will agree.

  
  


…….

Clarke is proud of herself. She’s proud of herself because she has painted a small rose in oils on a piece of board to send to Bellamy. It’s a pretty enough attempt, she thinks, but that’s not really why she’s proud.

She’s feeling good about herself because she’s decided to embrace this new chapter in her relationship with Bellamy. She’s decided that if he can send prints that seem to be courting gifts, she can send a heartfelt token in return. She thinks this is a reasonable interpretation of his actions - and she’s proud most of all for getting on with showing him how she feels rather than being the shy, retiring lady she ought to be. That might sound foolish, but she relishes the thrill of doing something forbidden. Of using the element of risk to her reputation to implicitly show Bellamy just how much she cares for him.

She half wishes she could consult her mother about this whole situation. About navigating the murky waters of love and longing, about how to guess whether a man sees her as a sister or a lover. Whether it is a good thing that Bellamy laughs with her at a ball rather than complimenting her dancing, or whether it is the very worst.

But of course, she cannot ask her mother. The choice of how to respond to Bellamy’s words and gifts is a choice she must make alone.

She sits at a desk to compose the last part of her current letter to him.

_You will have noticed by now that I have enclosed a gift. I was unsure whether to send it, truthfully. You have seen many great wonders on your travels and this is a paltry attempt by comparison. But it comes with my heartfelt good wishes. I hope you will look upon it and remember the rose garden at The Arbours. I do believe that walking over to say goodbye to you that day was quite the best decision of my life._

_Ever yours_

_Clarke_

There’s to be a ball in the town hall tonight. Clarke cannot stop smiling, as she readies herself for the festivities. She cannot stop thinking of how Bellamy might react to her little gesture. Will he be moved, like she was when she first received that print from Athens? Will he understand it for the love token it is?

Or is it too much? Will he think her pathetic for pining so blatantly? No. That seems unlikely. He’s a kind man. If he must disappoint her, she trusts him to at least do it gently.

Dressed and coiffed, Clarke is ready to join her parents for the ball. She’s in high spirits, eager to have some fun. And she wonders, perhaps, whether she might tell Octavia just a little hint of what is going on between herself and Bellamy. It would be nice to share her excitement with a friend. Clarke honestly feels almost _dizzy_ with the rush of warmth that comes over her every time she reads one of Bellamy’s letters, these days. It is nice to feel _wanted_ , to truly believe he might be interested.

She puts her best foot forward, when she arrives. She dances a quadrille with Mr Green, then leaves the floor expecting to partner Mr Jordan next, perhaps.

She is taken by surprise when her mother’s good friend Mrs Cartwig intercepts her, with a young gentleman Clarke does not recognise at her side.

“Miss Clarke Griffin. May I present Mr Cillian Chirurgeon.”

Clarke nods, a polite smile fixed on her face. But internally her mind is going a mile a minute. Mr Chirurgeon is the name of the village apothecary. But he’s an older gentleman, not at all like this young - and admittedly rather handsome - gentleman she has just been introduced to.

“Mr Chirurgeon. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Are you by any chance related to Mr Chirurgeon the apothecary?”

Mr Chirurgeon laughs. “Indeed I am. Most diplomatically asked, Miss Griffin. He’s my uncle. He has decided that the time has come for him to consider retiring, so he has invited me here to take his place.”

“You too are in that trade?”

“I have some training as a physician.” He says, apparently proud of himself. Clarke is a little jealous, in all honesty. To train as a physician is no mean thing. It sounds like rather an adventure, she thinks - an adventure more to her interest than Bellamy’s tour, in many ways.

Maybe her interest in his profession shows on her face. Whether that is the case or not, this Mr Chirurgeon seems to see something he likes.

“Miss Griffin, may I have the next dance?”

Clarke is in a good mood - with herself and with the world. So she does the sensible thing and says yes.

…….

Bellamy thinks of tears as a sad thing. He has cried plenty of times in his life - when his father left, most probably, although he was too young to remember that. When Octavia’s father died, certainly. When Clarke fell from that tree and he feared she might have broken her neck. When he learned he was going on this tour and feared Clarke didn’t care about his departure, just a few errant tears. And various other times in between.

But he seems to have developed a habit of crying happy tears, since he has begun this correspondence with Clarke.

That’s a good thing, he decides. He’s always been an emotional sort - too emotional for a boy, he sometimes used to fear. But it seems that strengthening his relationship with Clarke has brought out some brighter emotions, taught him a more joyful kind of exuberance.

And today? Today is the most joyful day of all.

He can’t believe she would send him this. This is not some little print of a tourist sight. This is her own work, effortful and beautiful. And the message she sent with it? The reminder of that moment in the rose garden?

He is going to marry this woman. He is absolutely determined of it.

She must feel the same way. Writing letters to him he could, perhaps, justify as childish friendly attachment. That’s what he told himself when they began this - although even then, he must admit, he was starting to have hope. But there is something so unashamedly romantic about this rose she has sent him that he is ready to jump for joy.

“From Clarke, I take it?” Miller asks, brow quirked.

Bellamy grins, laughs a little from sheer happiness. “Yes. Yes, from Clarke. I am beginning to wish I could propose to her by post.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.” Miller offers.

Bellamy shakes his head. He wants to do this properly. He sets the precious painting aside and starts penning a letter.

_My dearest Clarke_

_I must thank you for your kind gift. That rose is almost as beautiful as the Princess who painted it! You cannot know how much -_

“Blake. Dinner calls. You can finish your love letter later.” Miller tells him soundly, with a friendly clap on the shoulder.

Bellamy shakes his head, disorientated. Right. Yes. That’ll be him getting swept away on a tide of emotion again. Miller is quite right. He should go and eat his meal before he finishes writing to Clarke.

But he wants to finish it _now_ , damn it. He wants to finish it now while he still has the courage to tell her he thinks her beautiful.

…….

Clarke is surprised the first time Mr Chirurgeon calls on her.

But she’s more surprised the second time he calls. And the third and the fourth. She’s still more shocked when he dances with her twice at the next ball - and the supper set, at that.

It seems that he has taken an interest in her, and she hasn’t the faintest clue what she’s done to encourage it.

She supposes she hasn’t _discouraged_ it. He’s a pleasant enough gentleman, although hardly entertaining company. And she hasn’t told him to shove off and take his poultices with him, because she’s a gently bred young lady. But she certainly hasn’t shown him any particular warmth.

She wonders whether maybe she _ought_ to show him some particular warmth. It’s almost a month, now, since she received that letter when Bellamy implied that he found her somewhat attractive, and said that he had really loved her gift. But he’s made no attempt at taking their relationship any further since then, and she’s beginning to wonder whether she misread the situation - _again_. Whether he really does only care for her as a friend.

For about the fifteenth time this week, she reflects that loving one’s best friend is a losing game.

She shakes herself. She cannot sit around and fret about this all day. She ought to dress and head downstairs, ready in case My Chriurgeon should call. This is her life, now - rather than wandering about the fields she must sit home in a voluminous skirt and wait for a dull man to praise her nonexistent skill on the pianoforte.

No. Again - she _must stop_ being so uncharitable just because her feelings about Bellamy are causing her grief.

She ought to be kind to Mr Chirurgeon. She probably ought to encourage his suit - if Bellamy does not come through, she must marry _someone_. Maybe she can encourage Mr Chirurgeon to take things slowly, see whether she can string this out until Bellamy comes home and she has some hope of clarity.

She hates feeling confused like this. She used to pride herself on being a clear-thinking young woman. But as she marches down the stairs to meet her fate, only one thing is clear in her mind.

Being a young lady is a most distressing experience.

…….

Bellamy is feeling buoyant, as he and Miller cross the Alps. France - and a long stay in Paris - is to form the last part of their journey back home. They will, in fact, spend a couple of months on this stage of the voyage. But it feels like a return towards home all the same.

He might be pleased to head home, but he loved Rome. He really did. He sort of has this idea brewing in the back of his mind that he might take Clarke there, one day. If they do marry he thinks she would rather like to do some sort of tour like the one he is now undertaking. He knows there are those in the world who would say such an undertaking is not fit for a woman - but those people have evidently not met Clarke. She is fit for anything she chooses to attempt, he is sure of it. And besides which, she could hardly be in great danger with him glued to her side.

It’s a pleasant dream. 

No - more than a dream. He will make it real for her. This trip should have been Clarke’s not his, he sometimes thinks. She is truly the adventurer out of the two of them. He loves history and culture, but he loves his home and family more. He has no idea how he will afford to bring her on such an elaborate marriage tour - he, the natural son of a tailor, kindly raised by an indulgent stepfather. He hasn’t a penny of his own.

But he’ll make it work. For Clarke, he would do anything.

……..

Clarke knows she ought to have told Bellamy about Mr Chirurgeon by now. 

But she hasn’t. She hasn’t, and now it is too late to know where to begin. What should she write? _Dearest love of my life, I think I am being courted by a bore_? It’s hardly a proper beginning, even for this most improper of correspondences.

Strictly speaking, there is no reason why she should tell Bellamy. Nothing has _happened_ , as yet. And Bellamy has no actual claim on her. That’s why she’s tolerating this apothecary - because she needs to know she will be married if her absent friend does not come up to scratch. It’s such an infuriating mess, and she feels guilty for keeping it hidden from Bellamy even though -

“Miss Griffin? Are you with me?” Mr Chirurgeon interrupts her thoughts, calm and almost _empty_ as he always seems to be.

“Yes. I do beg your pardon. I was woolgathering.”

“I quite understand, Miss Griffin. _Clarke_. I wonder if I might have your attention for a moment, though. There is something most particular I wanted to ask you today.”

She panics. She doesn’t often do that, she likes to think. She’s normally rather calm and _solid_. But in this moment she can hear her heart pounding in her ears. Mr Chirurgeon cannot have a particular question to ask her. Not here. Not now.

Not when she hasn’t even told Bellamy this man _exists_.

“Please, Mr Chirurgeon. I cannot see why we should have anything particular to discuss.” She says, light and trilling, as she has heard the other young ladies speak to their suitors. “We have scarcely known each other for a couple of months. That is much too soon to have _particular_ conversations, I am quite sure.”

Just for a moment, he is thrown off course. She can see it. For the first time in all the short weeks she has known him, he looks _perturbed_. She feels almost sorry. She might have to marry this man, one day. She should not actually wish to upset him.

He gathers himself and presses on. “Quite so. Quite so. I was simply speaking of courtship.” He tells her firmly. “I do believe we have known each other quite long enough for that. Would you be willing to enter into a courtship with me, Clarke? Could we spend some time exploring whether we might suit?”

She nods. She smiles. That is the correct response.

But all the while, her thoughts are racing behind the scenes. And she is stuck on two most unhelpful and unsettling thoughts.

The first thought? She doesn’t like the way this virtual stranger calls her _Clarke_. Her name is reserved for family and for people she loves.

The second thought? She really ought to tell Bellamy about this, now.

She tries to put it out of mind. For the rest of the evening’s entertainment, she smiles and dances and puts a brave face on it. She nods to her father, when he asks whether she truly wishes for this courtship. She nods to her mother, when she asks whether Clarke is happy.

She does not like all this senseless nodding. Pure thoughtless agreement does not suit her, she decides.

But she doesn’t know what else to do. She is stuck in a situation that, she can see, is entirely of her own making. And she doesn’t know how to get out of it. She cannot see a way to extricate herself from this mess whilst behaving as a proper young lady ought. The only solutions she can see are truly desperate ones - something like outright begging Bellamy to propose to her.

Her dignity would never survive that, and nor would her reputation. And those are two things she has been taught all her life should be precious to her.

The moment she gets home, she sits at her desk to write to Bellamy. She simply must write to him and tell him of her courtship, and she knows it. She cannot let him live in ignorance any longer. He deserves the chance to speak up and claim her if he is interested in more than friendship from her. And if not? If not, then she has simply shared the news with him as a friend.

She picks up her pen. She stares at the blank page. She fiddles with her inkwell, to no great purpose.

She sighs. She can do this. All her life, she has been able to find words when it comes to communicating with Bellamy.

Well - all her life apart from that horrific period just before he went away, when they were both struggling with the pressures and expectations of adulthood and the shift in their relationship. Is this the same, she wonders? Are they destined to always fail to be clear with one another when it comes to defining what lies between them?

She sets down her pen again. She rubs her temples. She grips her pen, forces herself to make a start.

_My dearest Bellamy_

Another pause. More trouble with her inkwell. Another heaving breath.

_I miss you_.

That’s all she can manage, for tonight. It’s all she can do - she, Clarke Griffin, powerless to take the lead in her own life.

She sets her pen down and sobs.

…….

If entering France felt like coming home, Paris almost feels like it _is_ home. They stay in a house belonging to some distant relative of Miller, where the servants all speak perfect English and Sunday dinner is roast beef. They are so close, now - yet far enough away to still have sights to see. There is a great number of artworks to be seen here, and he fully intends to buy books and prints aplenty to take home to Clarke. He’s been saving much of the allowance Marcus gave him for the trip in anticipation of this opportunity.

And the best thing of all? The letters. They arrive to a bundle of them, and Bellamy knows the post to and from home will be far quicker from this city than they have found it since they left England.

“We should see to our correspondence before we eat.” Miller suggests mildly.

Bellamy looks up at him, surprised. Normally Miller is one to tease him for his eagerness to read his letters, not to suggest they prioritise the post himself. But as he frowns at the stack of letters, he thinks he can make out one in the handwriting he has come to recognise as belonging to Miller’s closest friend back home.

“By all means.” Bellamy agrees easily, swiping his handful of letters.

He settles into his room and reads Clarke’s first. It’s a little on the short side, and he must admit he’s somewhat disappointed by that. But he tells himself they will be able to write more rapidly now they are closer together, and that anyway it is not long until he can arrive home and beg her to make him the happiest of men. Besides which, as he starts reading, he realises the content more than makes up for the length. It’s a letter full of how much she misses him, full of references to the rose garden, full of thoughtful enquiries into his wellbeing.

Well satisfied, he sets that aside and reaches for the letter from his mother. Hers is rather longer but, he soon realises, the content is much less to his liking.

_My dearest son_

_There is some news you should know and I fear you will not like it. Clarke has entered into a courtship with a Mr Chirurgeon - the nephew of the old apothecary._ _A courtship_ _, mind you, not an engagement. I know you have always kept your cards close to your chest whenever I ask about Clarke. But I pry into your life only because I want the best for you. If you want me to carry some message for you - or if you want Marcus to have a word with Jake - you know you need only ask._

He cannot keep reading. He sets the letter aside. Clarke has entered into a courtship? _His_ Clarke? The same Clarke who just wrote him a letter full of shared memories and teasing words and professions of how much she misses him?

He cannot make sense of it.

Why wouldn’t she tell him? Does she truly see him so much as a brother that she thought it was not relevant information? No, even a brother would want to know his sister was happy in her courtship. And anyway, he’s beyond convinced that no brother and sister send each other painted roses or sweet little lines about beauty.

He swallows down tears. This is ridiculous. Is it perhaps a cruel joke? No, his mother would never play such a trick on him. Some terrible misunderstanding? Has he lost the letter where Clarke told him her news?

No. If she wanted him to know something that important, it would leap out of every page of every letter.

He scrubs a hand across his eyes. He hates this. He hates this talent Clarke has for getting a rise out of him and getting him riled up. He seems to remember he likes it, when she is bringing out the positive emotions in him. But in this moment he is furious that she has the power to make him feel so pathetic and unmanly.

He was supposed to go on this trip to grow into a true gentleman, damn it. He was supposed to arrive home and sweep his perfect lady off her feet and live happily ever after with her.

He picks up his pen, determined to write a letter to Clarke. Only for the first time in ten months he genuinely does not know what to write.

_Clarke_

No. Far too cold. She may be courting another man, but she’ll be his _dearest Clarke_ until the end of his days.

_My dearest Clarke_

_I received some news from my mother and I must own it came as a surprise. I hear you are being courted. I hope he makes you very happy._

He snorts, crosses through the lines angrily. He does not hope this Mr Chirurgeon makes her happy. He hopes nothing of the kind. He hopes that Clarke rejects this stranger soundly and waits for Bellamy to come home.

He tries again.

_Dearest Clarke_

_I was surprised to hear of your courtship. I had not known you were attached to anyone in the village. I was surprised most of all that you had not told me yourself. I must own that I believed you and I to be on more intimate terms than that._

_Please do not take this for rudeness. I only find myself confused. Your happiness is important to me, and if you can be happy with this Mr Chirurgeon then truly, I wish you well._

_Ever yours_

_Bellamy_

It’s brief. It’s cold, too, however hard he tried to make it warm. But he’s struggling for warmth right now, because he thinks his heart might have fallen through the soles of his shoes.

At least it’s a letter. It’s a functional, clear letter. And he has some hope that he will get a useful reply, because he and Clarke have always communicated well via the post.

At least, they have until now.

…….

Clarke has never been so happy to receive such a terse letter as she has received from Bellamy this morning. The thing is, she thinks she can read between the lines of his brusqueness. She dares to hope that he wants her to reply that she would not be particularly happy with Mr Chirurgeon, thank you very much.

She just hopes he will give her some useful response - some proposal or promise ideally - by return when she replies. She knows that she is getting ahead of herself, there. There is no guarantee of it. But she’s feeling optimistic all the same, and she really does hope that Bellamy will move swiftly if he has any interest in marrying her himself, because every day it grows harder and harder to convince Mr Chirurgeon that he is not yet acquainted with her well enough to make an offer.

She feels awful, writing a letter in the hopes of pressuring her best friend to propose to her. But she doesn’t see what other choice she has. This is her lot as a woman. Her only power lies in influencing the behaviour of the men in her life as best she can. And she thinks Bellamy would understand that, would appreciate the difficulty of her situation. She cannot blame him for not speaking up sooner - he imagined that she would be sitting happily and home waiting for him and painting her landscapes when he returned.

She picks up her pen and steels herself to be utterly honest.

_My dearest Bellamy_

_I am so happy to receive your letter. I know not how you came to learn of my news - I must own I was keeping it from you, not because I seek to have any secrets from you, but because I did not know what to say. I do not know if I could be happy with Mr Chirurgeon, because I barely know him. I know nothing about him besides that he is an apothecary and he claims I play sweetly on the pianoforte. I suppose he is a kind man and we could perhaps learn how to be happy together. That is what I am counting on, by entertaining this courtship. To speak plainly, I must marry someone, and he appears inclined to offer. In fact, he appears inclined to offer soon._

_I am sorry I did not tell you, truly. If I have any excuse it is this: my courtship with Mr Chirurgeon does not feel, to me, as if it belongs in letters to you. Our correspondence is for discussing your adventures, and my art, and our feelings about the world around us. It is for matters of importance and things which touch our hearts. Drawing room discussions about the weather have no place in it._

_I can only apologise if you felt hurt by my secrecy or by my courtship. I never wanted to hurt you. You must know that._

_Ever yours_

_Clarke_

She sets down her pen, rests her head in her hands to take a few calming breaths. This counts as bravery, she supposes, for a young lady. She does not feel ready to lay her heart on the line like this - and yet, even now, there is so much left unsaid.

She leaves it be. It will have to do. She can hardly make herself more plain than that. And at least, she thinks, this leaves some room for a fair state of affairs if Bellamy is not romantically inclined. She can still be his friend, and claim that was the meaning of her heartfelt words, and quietly marry Mr Chirurgeon.

She only hopes she does not have to.

…….

To say that Bellamy is relieved on reading Clarke’s letter would be an understatement. She has no particular attachment to this Mr Chirurgeon. She is only seeking to be pragmatic and sensible, and accept an eligible proposal.

Well, then. She can accept his eligible proposal when he gets home.

Whether she loves him romantically or not, he hopes she would at least prefer to marry him rather than a stranger. The only problem, as he sees it, is the talk of Mr Chirurgeon proposing _soon_. Soon might well mean before Bellamy gets home, he fears.

Soon might mean he misses his chance.

He wonders what to do about it. He could write to her father and ask him to refuse Mr Chirurgeon's suit. He could write to his mother and ask her to interfere and buy him some time.

He could, most obviously, write Clarke a letter.

He doesn’t really want to, though. Foolish though it may be, he wants to kneel to her in that rose garden. He does not want a frantic proposal by illicit letter. Clarke deserves better than that. She deserves to know that he truly adores her, that he is not just asking because of this sticky situation.

It’s not only that. It’s _fear_ too. What if she doesn’t love him, after all this? What if he writes some heartfelt letter of love and she scorns him? What if she would rather marry some stranger? What if he ruins his chance forever with some clumsy words?

He is rubbing at his forehead, trying vainly to chase away his headache, when Miller knocks and enters.

“You’re sad about Clarke again.” Miller observes quietly.

Bellamy starts. He has said nothing to his companion about any of this.

“Are you going to tell me what has happened?” Miller presses.

Bellamy sighs. “She’s being courted.”

“I take it you mean she’s being courted by someone else _as well as you_.”

Bellamy gives a grudging laugh. “We’re not really courting.”

“You are. But neither of you seem to have noticed it yet.”

Another grudging laugh.

“Why not just tell her, Bellamy? Would it really be so hard? Would it be any worse than this? The agony of not knowing?”

He frowns, nods slightly. “I think I should. I think I must write to her. But - I don’t want to tell her I love her on _paper_. I want to tell her in person. I want to propose to her properly.”

“Better to tell her on paper than not at all. Look at it this way, Blake. You can marry this woman. She is available, and all the evidence suggests she cares for you. So what are you waiting for? Don’t sit around and waste your chance because you are nervous.”

Bellamy nods. “You say that as if you have experienced something similar yourself.”

Miller frowns tightly and looks away. “I find myself attracted to - to other gentlemen.” He mutters quietly.

Oh. _Oh_. Yes. Bellamy can see that leaves him in quite a fix, really. He can understand why Miller is such a loud advocate for Bellamy getting on with snatching his happiness, seeing as he actually _can_.

“You have someone back home.” He says, and it’s not a question. “That friend of yours who writes often?”

Miller nods, short.

“I am sorry, Miller. That is a tough road to walk. I find that you have quite put my petty troubles in perspective.”

Miller cracks a smile. “I did not mean to make you feel guilty. Your situation is truly unpleasant for you - I can see that. But I am simply suggesting it could be solved if only you trusted yourself and Clarke to make the best of it.”

Bellamy nods. He can certainly trust Clarke. And wasn’t this great adventure about learning how to trust himself, at least in part?

He’s there, now. He’s ready. Clarke’s letter and Miller’s encouragement and his own ardent feelings have pushed him into action.

He picks up his pen and prepares to pour his heart out upon the page.

…….

Clarke is not surprised when Mr Chirurgeon proposes. She still cannot think of him as _Cillian_ \- funny, that, in an unamusing sort of a way. But she has been courted by him long enough now to know that he is not a man who greatly cares whether she is feeling warm towards him or her emotions are engaged. He wants a wife who is kind and passably pretty, and who can stand cheerfully by while he lives his life.

Good for him. Clarke is not that woman.

She tells him she needs to think about it. If Bellamy doesn’t get back to her soon, she suspects she might end up politely rejecting Mr Chirurgeon anyway. She is becoming increasingly convinced that she is not made for a life of docile domesticity, no matter how economically sensible it may be. She can always be the spinster aunt to Octavia’s children, she decides. And even to Bellamy’s. She will dandle his babies by Miss Bragg on her knee if that is the price she must pay for being unashamedly herself.

She walks to the post office, this morning, while she thinks about her options. She really does love her parents for allowing her all this freedom. She supposes she has them to blame affectionately, too, for the fact she turned out so headstrong. But she wouldn’t have it any other way.

There’s a letter waiting for her at the post office. She swallows down her excitement. It’s not long at all since she last wrote to Bellamy, and she scarcely dares to hope that this is a reply already. Has he received her answer and written back so soon? He must have been eager indeed for her to read his words.

Does that mean what she hopes it might mean?

She snatches the letter from the postmaster and strides down the street. She does not make it home, in the end. She cannot bear the tension. She sits, unladylike, in the dirt behind a hedge and rips the paper open.

_My dearest Clarke_

_I had not planned to write this in a letter. Forgive me. If the sentiments I express are to your taste I will gladly repeat them in person on my return. But for now all I can do is beg you not to marry this Mr Chirurgeon. Marry me instead, Clarke. I have loved you from the moment I learned how to love - or perhaps a little before. You have long been my best friend, and you grew up beautiful. Yours are a beautiful face and figure, yes, but also a beautiful mind and wit and laugh. I have been hoping to marry you all my adult life and I dearly wish I had found the courage to propose that last morning in the rose garden._

_My offer still stands if you do not feel the same way. If you cannot love me as a husband but only as a friend, I would still offer you my hand. Marry me if you would feel happier with your best friend than with a stranger. If it is so, I will do my best to respect you and to let you live a comfortable life._

_There is so much more I could say - yet I fear I will be embarrassed if I say it all and you do not choose to accept my proposal. I want to take you to Paris and Rome and Athens and Vienna and share my adventure with you. But I want to make my home with you, too, and laugh with you as we sit by the fire. I want it all with you, Clarke Griffin. I want every moment of the rest of our lives._

_I pray this letter reaches you before it is too late._

_All my love_

_Bellamy_

Clarke finds herself laughing aloud from sheer relief. All shall be well. Bellamy loves her, and he wants to marry her, and they have their whole life ahead of them. She’s always suspected he could be the romantic sort - he does go for big gestures, after all. But she never thought to read such eloquent words of love from him, and it has happy tears streaming from her eyes.

She pats them away. She must get on. There is something she feels the need to do. It’s an entirely sensible action, she believes. A most rational decision. The way she sees it, she’s sick and tired of being trapped here amidst the expectations of society with an unwanted proposal from a stranger looming over her.

And not far across the sea, in Paris, is a man who loves her very much. A man who loves _all_ of her - the adventurous spirit and confidence as well as the kindness and carefulness. A man who wants to go touring with her and explore with her, as well as sharing hearth and home with her.

So she maintains that packing her valise and taking the stagecoach to Portsmouth is an entirely reasonable thing to do. That is, after all, the most sensible route to Paris.

…….

  
  


Bellamy must admit that he has spent a great deal of time pacing, in recent days. It’s a new habit and he is convinced it does not suit him. But he has no other way to manage the nervous energy of waiting for Clarke’s response.

There must be some news soon, he hopes. Perhaps in the post tomorrow or the next day. How long does it take, for a letter to speed straight to Surrey and a reply to come immediately? How long should he keep waiting before he gives up hope? How long -

“Mr Miller. Mr Blake.” The maid curtseys smoothly. “There’s a young lady to see you, sirs. Says she knows Mr Blake. She looks a sorry sight but she speaks real proper. Little blonde thing, she is, all -”

“Could you show her in, please.” Bellamy interrupts. He’s not in the habit of interrupting servants - all his life he’s tried hard to respect them. But he’s beginning to hope that he knows what it means, if there’s a dishevelled young blonde lady standing on their doorstep and claiming to know him.

The maid nods and leaves. Miller slips smoothly from the room, too, with little more than a nod. He’s a very perceptive gentleman like that, Bellamy notes.

And then all at once Clarke is there. She’s standing on the threshold, chewing her lip nervously, as if she’s wondering whether she made the right choice by coming all this way.

She’s made the best choice of her life, he decides at once. He darts forward, wraps her in a fierce hug.

“Does this mean what I hope it means?” He asks as he holds her tight.

“Yes. Yes. I love you.” She tells him, hurried. “Yes to the proposal. Yes to the adventures and yes to sitting by the fire.”

He pulls back to look her right in the eyes. “I love you so much. You want me to ask the question again?”

“Is there really any need? I think that letter was most thorough. I believe I shall have to get it framed and put up on the wall of our future home.”

He smiles shyly. “You liked it?”

“It was perfect. And this way I have a souvenir to hold onto and read over again all my life.”

He smiles a little broader. That’s a sweet thought. It’s the kind of sentimentality he didn’t quite realise Clarke was capable of, until this moment.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming here.” She mutters, eyes suddenly downcast. “I know it’s not proper. But after that morning I showed up at The Arbours I thought you might like a surprise visit.”

“A surprise visit from you is always welcome.” He tells her at once. He seems to have his hands on her waist, now, and he wonders when that happened. He simply cannot stop holding her, reassuring himself that she’s real. “I wonder how you managed it, though. Paris is a long way from home.”

“My home is where you are.” She tells him, her chin jutting up as if daring him to disagree with her.

“I won’t argue with that.”

“It was a great adventure, though. Perhaps not one I will try again. I took my savings and told my parents I was going to visit the tenants. I do hope they realise that was a lie and give the Joneses a basket. And then I took the stagecoach to Portsmouth, and then sailed the channel. And then I had the opportunity to practise my French in France rather than the schoolroom, and that was quite the experience.” She laughs lightly.

He shakes his head. She’s quite something, his future wife. He’d rather she went on _safe_ adventures from now on - he’s not at all sure about the wisdom of young women taking the stagecoach alone. But he’s hardly about to complain in this moment.

“You’ll be thoroughly ruined. You really will have to marry me now.” He tells her.

“Yes. That’s the plan.” She agrees mildly.

He shakes his head once more. “I can’t believe this is real. You love me. You’re _here_.”

She nods, fierce. “I had to come. You sounded so hurt in that letter when you realised I was being courted, then so desperate when you proposed. And I was not doing at all well at home feeling the pressure of the courtship. So really, running off to see you was the only choice.”

“ _Only choice_. An oxymoron, my love.”

“So are tears of joy.” She points out softly, reaching up to stroke his damp cheeks.

Ah. Yes. Well. He might have shed a few of those. But that’s all well and good, he maintains. There is nothing unmanly or immature about a little happy crying when the love of his life has just brought herself across the sea to accept his marriage proposal. He thinks he is doing quite well at being a young gentleman, thank you very much. He has almost completed his tour. His education is excellent if unconventional. And he recently secured the most wonderful woman’s hand in marriage.

There’s only one thing that remains, he thinks, for this moment to be complete.

“May I kiss you?” He asks, soft, suddenly nervous.

She takes matters into her own hands, of course. She does not stand around to say yes and then wait for him to press his lips to hers. Instead she reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss him full on the mouth.

It’s a good kiss, he thinks. They are both very inexperienced, naturally, but this feels pleasant if a little tentative. They can work on that. They have the whole of the rest of their lives to practise kissing each other.

All the same, this is a most promising start.

…….

Clarke wakes up the following morning feeling somewhat disorientated.

She’s in Paris. Of course she’s in Paris. But now she’s safely installed in her own room in this house belonging to some relative of Mr Miller, and now that Bellamy is not in sight, she finds that she feels rather more strongly the force of what she’s done.

Her reputation is ruined. She knows it would be folly to be utterly unconcerned by that. So instead she resolves that she will be only a _little_ concerned. They live in a small village, she reasons, where most people have either always liked her or always disliked her. To make a happy married life together she and Bellamy have no great need of prominence in their local society. Their families will forgive them, and that is what counts.

Her only concern is for Octavia. Will this affect Octavia’s standing and prospects? Clarke dearly hopes not.

She is startled by the sound of knocking at her bedroom door.

“Who is it?” She calls.

“Me. Bellamy.” He responds, as if she might not know his beloved voice by now.

“I suppose you may as well come in.” She decides. They agreed to keep separate rooms and separate beds until the marriage, because contrary to appearances they do both wish to proceed _correctly_. But she does not see what further harm it could do to have him enter her room at this point.

He does not exactly come in. He opens the door, informal in his shirt sleeves, and stands there leaning against the door frame with a ready smile.

“Are you feeling well this morning?” He asks her gently.

She frowns. “I think so. I suppose I find that the magnitude of what I have done is hitting me quite hard.”

His smile turns softer. “I still cannot quite believe it. Clarke Griffin - who used to insist on calling a halt to our games of knights and princesses on time for tea. And yet you have run away to Paris for me.”

“It made sense at the time.” She defends herself. It made the _utmost_ sense. She cannot begin to explain how trapped and anxious she was feeling back home. She simply needed to run - the weight of duty and expectation was getting to be too much for her.

“I know. I am hardly complaining. We will manage just fine so long as we have each other.”

She nods at once. “Yes. Absolutely. And at least you need never doubt how excessively strong my love for you is.” She teases brightly.

He smiles ever wider. “You’re quite right. I shall have this memory to hold onto even as you will have your framed letter.”

She grins. Silence falls - but a rather happy kind of silence. She wonders about inviting him to cross the room for a morning kiss, but even in the midst of ruin, old habits die hard. She thinks she wants to wait for marriage before she allows herself to be too carried away.

Is that the right thing to do? Does it even matter any more?

Yes. She doesn’t much mind whether the rest of the world respects her, as long as she respects herself. And whilst she cannot greatly see the purpose of all these societal rules about chastity even when one is betrothed, she supposes she will feel better if she can in all good conscience say she has done the right thing.

“What happens now?” She asks at length.

“I should like us to stay in Paris and finish this tour.” He suggests. “I had plans to bring you home some books on the works of art here. But I suspect you would rather see the pieces yourself.”

“I’d like that. But - do you not think we should head home and face the trouble I have caused?”

“We shall see. I have written to your father to explain the situation as delicately as I could. I am hopeful that he loves you enough to simply allow you to stay and have this small adventure before we return home. I am due back in England soon anyway.”

Clarke nods. “He and my mother know where I am. I left a note on my pillow. I suspect they already know exactly what has happened. I truly am sorry for causing all this trouble.”

“I would face all this trouble and more to marry you.” He says, as if that ought to be obvious.

All the same, there is one other apology she feels the need to make. “I am sorry for the mess with Mr Chirurgeon. And most of all for writing you that letter half begging for a proposal. I am so sorry I put you in that situation, Bellamy. But I didn’t know what else to do. I felt so powerless.” She concludes, and even now all is safely resolved she can feel the sting of tears in her eyes.

Bellamy looks troubled. She wonders whether that means she has touched a nerve, whether perhaps he is still more angry about this than he first let on.

It turns out she is wrong. It turns out that’s a conflicted expression. She works that out when he apparently admits defeat and strides across the room to pull her into a warm and mostly chaste hug.

“I forgive you, Clarke. There is no need to keep apologising for it. I hate to think of all your energy and boldness cooped up in a drawing room while you agonised over whether to accept that proposal. When we are married, I shall try never to step on your wings.”

She smiles slightly at his image, but forces herself to pull away from his embrace. They cannot sit around and hug all day - and besides which, they have a lifetime ahead of them to do that.

“Perhaps I should have proposed sooner.” Bellamy muses as he smiles down at her.

Clarke snorts. “Perhaps. I have loved you since I was fifteen, I believe - and truly loved you as a woman loves a man since at least seventeen.”

Bellamy looks a little shamefaced. “Yes. That’s - that’s about when it started for me, too. I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t know. I used to think you thought of me as family or friend. _Part of the furniture_ \- I distinctly recall fearing that the day I told you about this trip.”

“I thought that was how you saw me.” Clarke remembers easily.

“For two people who have written a great many letters and spoken a great deal, we have communicated most poorly about this.” Bellamy offers. He is apparently trying for a teasing tone, but Clarke thinks he sounds more truly sad.

“That’s hardly a surprise.” She says thoughtfully. “I will rattle on about anything and everything except my feelings. You like to make your heartfelt gestures but do not talk about love. That is simply our way.”

He nods. “You have us both perfectly. We shall do better, Clarke. I intend to tell you I love you loudly and often.”

She grins. “Not too loudly, I hope. Mr Miller might think us strange.”

“Believe me, Mr Miller already knows all my foibles.”

…….

Bellamy was right, it turns out, to suspect that Clarke would be the ideal companion for an adventure or tour.

They have a jolly time of it, in the days that follow - the happy couple with Miller, too, all three of them taking in the sights of Paris and laughing along the way. It’s an unusual travelling party, Bellamy muses. A scandalously engaged couple and their most unconventional chaperone.

Bellamy is disappointed in only one regard. Clarke refuses to let him buy her that engagement gift.

“What need have I of a book when I have seen the city for myself?” She asks brightly.

“Think of it as a keepsake. Or an engagement gift. A token of my love.” He mutters, displeased. He does not want them to cause a scene in the bookseller’s because she will not accept a gift.

“Bellamy. Be still a moment.” She rests a gentle hand on his arm, stops him reaching for a book. “I have the perfect keepsake. I have your proposal letter. If you are so determined to spend your money on an engagement gift, put it in savings towards our future. Perhaps we will be able to make that longer tour together in future years.”

He frowns. That is quite a fine idea, actually. Trust Clarke to undermine him with one of her good ideas. He just wants to make her _happy_ , damn it.

“That is truly what you want?”

“Yes. I have some money left over from the cost of travelling here. Perhaps I shall add that to the pot, too. We will find ourselves in Rome before long, you mark my words.”

He laughs, although he suspects she is not entirely joking. In his experience, Clarke rarely fails at anything she has set her mind to.

…….

Clarke is disappointed to leave Paris, but not particularly sad. It’s an odd mix of emotions, but foremost in her mind is the excitement of going home for her wedding.

That said, she’s also dreading the awkwardness and scandal that might well be waiting for them back home. She’s fearful of Octavia’s reaction - she knows that her friend, although good at heart, has a tendency towards impulsiveness and short temper. She’s worried, therefore, that her reaction might not be entirely positive.

Most of all? More than anything she is concerned that she may have hurt or upset her parents.

She needn’t have feared that in the slightest, it turns out.

They are not angry. They are not displeased. What they are, as far as Clarke can tell, is _exasperated_.

“Welcome home, strangers.” Her father says, with a wry smile, when the carriage bearing both Clarke and Bellamy draws up outside Griffin Manor.

Clarke thinks that is as cynical a reception as she is likely to receive, but she is wrong.

“And how is the weather in Paris at this time of year?” Abby asks mildly.

There is a moment’s pause. Clarke rather wonders what to do. Then all at once Bellamy is stepping forward with an earnest expression on his face.

“Mr Griffin. Mrs Griffin. I’m so terribly sorry. Mr Griffin, might I have a moment of your time? I believe I must ask you -”

“A bit late for that, Bellamy.” Her father says, breaking into tired laughter.

“Please do stop with this stiff formality, dear. You are more family now than ever.” Her mother says, stepping forward to hug Bellamy soundly. “But perhaps next time you two could make your arrangements with a little consideration for our peace of mind?”

“Yes, mother. Sorry.” Clarke mutters, eyes downcast.

All at once, she finds that she is being engulfed in a fierce hug. It’s her mother, and she hugs her straight back.

It’s an interesting experience, Clarke finds. She has always understood that her parents love her. And she supposes she has always been close with her mother - they certainly have a good deal in common and enjoy their shared interests. But until this day her mother has mostly shown her love in a rather more _fierce_ sort of a way. By holding Clarke to a high standard, urging her to do her best, even challenging her when she thinks she is in the wrong.

Spurring her on to be her own heroine, perhaps.

This is the first time in quite some years that they have simply shared a heartfelt hug, and Clarke finds that she rather likes it.

“I truly am sorry. I did not mean to cause trouble. I just - I _had_ to leave.” Clarke tries to explain, helpless.

Her mother pulls back and nods at her. “I know. I understand. I won’t pretend that you have not caused us trouble but… I suppose I am proud of you, too. I am proud of you for being brave and seeking the best for yourself.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am, Clarke. I know we have not always seen eye to eye - that is normal, for a young woman your age and her mother, I believe. But who bought you those novels, my dear? Who encouraged you to visit Bellamy before he left on his tour? Who has been urging you on to undignified behaviour all these years?” She asks, eyes sparkling.

Clarke laughs. She can see it, now. Perhaps one day she will have to navigate the challenges of raising daughters of her own.

Bellamy goes on his way, and Clarke spends a pleasant evening with her parents. She notices that she talks at great length about Paris, but perhaps that is only to be expected. It is a little awkward at first, she finds, to speak about her poorly chaperoned adventures with Bellamy. But before long she comes to accept that her parents truly are more exhausted than annoyed, and relaxes into the flow of telling her stories.

The first evening, then, is a success. But the next morning brings a whole new challenge.

Clarke sets out early on her walk to The Arbours. She thinks it best not to be about the village when the high street is too busy - she does not much like the idea of having all the neighbours gawk at her and make a fuss about her impropriety. And as she walks, she practises a few lines in her head.

_I hope I have not damaged your prospects_. Goodness, that sounds formal, as a line for use in a conversation with a girl who has been as a sister to her for years.

_I care for your brother deeply_. She snorts. That one will be pointless. So much is obvious, is it not?

_I am sorry I was so secretive_. Yes. Much more useful. That is what Octavia will be angry about, Clarke thinks. She will not mind her brother marrying her close friend, nor some passing tarnish on her own reputation. She will mind being left out of all the excitement - she is a girl who lives for excitement.

Clarke arrives. She shakes out her petticoats - less muddy this time, she notes with pride. She knocks at the door and waits for Smith to answer.

“Good morning, Miss Griffin. May I take the liberty of congratulating you?”

Clarke grins. She doesn’t much care what the residents of the village say about the scandal, if only she has the support of the servants. They are the people who really matter in life.

“Thank you, Smith. Is Miss Blake home?”

“Yes. She’s in the blue drawing room. She’s been sitting there since breakfast. The young master said you would visit.”

Clarke nods, thanks Smith for his help. So Octavia has been primed, and the butler has been so kind as to tell her that. This will be fine, she tries to reassure herself.

It’s difficult. Octavia’s is really the only opinion she truly cares about besides those of her own family.

She walks down the familiar hallway. She knocks softly at the door, rather than having a maid announce her. She does not want an audience for this.

“Stop skulking in the hall. Pray enter and tell me how sorry you are for ruining my nonexistent prospects.” Octavia bites out. She sounds more annoyed than truly angry, Clarke thinks.

She does as she is bid. She walks into the drawing room, smiles tentatively at Octavia.

“I wasn’t going to start there. I was going to tell you instead how sorry I am for keeping so much from you. You have always been like a sister to me, even before I was engaged to your brother. I am sorry for leaving you out of my romance and my secrets. I am sorry for running away without warning you.” She pauses, finds that it is difficult to swallow. “I am sorry for not trusting you. I was finding it enough of a challenge to trust myself.”

There is a moment’s silence. The clock ticks loudly in the hall. Clarke wonders whether she is supposed to say more words, now, or whether it is Octavia’s turn and she had better wait.

“How do you do it?” Octavia asks, frowning. “How is it that you can always read me so easily? How do you always know exactly what to say to fix the problem?”

Clarke laughs dryly. “Hardly that, Octavia. _Sometimes_ I know. Other times I just keep trying and hope for the best.”

Octavia smiles thinly. “When I fall in love I intend to tell you every last detail. I hope you realise that.”

Clarke nods eagerly. “Yes. Yes, I will want to hear all about it. I’m only sorry I fell in love with your brother. I think I would have found it easier to share with you if it were anyone else in the world.”

Octavia snorts. “I am _not_ sorry you fell in love with my brother. He is happy, and you are happy, and I am to gain my closest friend for a sister. I believe it has all turned out well in the end.”

Clarke nods. She bites her lip. And then, almost before she has had a moment to gather her thoughts, she finds that Octavia is flying across the room to pull her into a hug.

…….

Bellamy finds that everything goes surprisingly smoothly, in the first couple of weeks back in Surrey. Jake grants his permission - or rather, Jake says that it appears Clarke will proceed with or without it, and grants his blessing instead. Abby seems to have decided that Bellamy is now one of her favourite people in the world, and keeps thanking him for making her daughter so happy. The welcome at The Arbours is similarly warm, tempered only by his mother suggesting that perhaps next time he ought to give a little more consideration to setting his affairs in order before he takes off across the sea.

Him? _Consideration_? He has Clarke for that.

Banns are read, wedding plans made. They’re to marry as soon as possible. And really, everything is going so wonderfully that Bellamy cannot help but suspect some disaster, soon. In his experience, life is rarely so easy as this.

That’s why his heart is hammering at a mile a minute when he finds himself summoned to Marcus’ study.

He takes a deep breath as he walks across the threshold, decides he had better get started on his apology.

“Mr Kane, sir, if this is about Paris I can only -”

“Bellamy. Please. Be calm. Sit down.”

Bellamy swallows tightly, does as his stepfather bids.

Silence sits heavily in the room. Marcus is frowning. Bellamy wonders if he might be about to get cast out from the house, perhaps.

“What on Earth is the matter, my boy? Why am I today to be addressed as _Mr Kane, sir_?” Marcus asks, somewhere between horrified and teasing.

Bellamy gasps. Apparently that frown was not about Paris, then. Apparently it was a very different kind of frown - confusion or even _hurt_ , perhaps.

“I am sorry, Marcus. I thought perhaps you were angry.”

“I believe if I were seriously angry I would have made it known by now.” Marcus says mildly. “As it happens, I was not particularly happy about the way you and Clarke resolved your situation. But I am overjoyed at the outcome, and I see no sense in dwelling on what cannot now be undone.”

“Thank you, sir. I truly am sorry.”

“It is forgiven. Your mother and Mrs Griffin did a fine job with the village gossips, reminding them that the two of you have been courting right under their noses for years. Funny how easily they were convinced of that.” Marcus offers, his voice half a question.

Bellamy nods. He can see, now, that they _were_ in fact courting for several years. He just didn’t know it at the time. No one gives you a practise run at falling in love, it turns out. A young couple are simply expected to try it and hope for the best despite their ignorance and inexperience.

“In fact, Bellamy, I asked you to sit down with me today for a quite different reason. I have made you my heir.”

Bellamy finds himself gaping foolishly. His _heir_ ? But they are not blood relations. Mr Kane is from an old landowning family and Bellamy is the natural son of a _tailor_.

“Excuse me - I think perhaps I misheard you.” He hedges quietly.

Marcus laughs. “You misheard nothing at all. I have made you my heir. God has not seen fit to grant me and your mother children by blood. But I am not inclined to complain when she has brought me two fine stepchildren. I cannot think of a finer master for The Arbours, Bellamy. You will be kind to the tenants and you love the land. You have always had a strong sense of home and family. And your future wife will make a fine mistress - she’s a rather sensible woman, when she isn’t running off to Paris.”

“I consider that quite the most sensible thing she has ever done.” Bellamy says mildly. “It solved our miscommunication problem admirably well.”

More laughter. Marcus grants the point with a grudging nod.

“I cannot thank you enough, Marcus. If you are truly certain about this, I can only promise I will do the best for the estate.”

“I know you will, Bellamy. And my mind is quite made up. I have been thinking for years now that you and Clarke would make a fine team in running this home.”

“You have?”

“Naturally I have. We have all known you would marry her since the day she put her hair up and let her hems down. But I quite understand why it took you two so long to arrive at the same conclusion. Marriage can be a frightening business, can it not?”

“It wasn’t the marriage.” Bellamy says at once. “As soon as we realised we had feelings for each other, marrying seemed obvious. The difficulty was the… growing up. Trying to navigate the differences between a relaxed childish friendship and a formal adult relationship.”

“And then the two of you realised that it was exactly that informality between you that made love grow?” Marcus concludes.

“Yes. Exactly that.” Bellamy agrees.

“I am happy for you. Truly - for _both_ of you, for I have known Clarke far longer than you and your mother and your sister have been in my life.” He points out. “I am sorry that I have not been able to have children with your mother. And yet the Lord has granted me the best son I could hope for all the same.”

Bellamy nods, throat thick, eyes damp.

“You have been the most kind and generous and forgiving father.” He manages to get out, hoarse.

All his life, he has fretted that he barely knew his father, that he was a nobody, that he did not fit in with his own admirable family alongside Octavia’s legitimacy and Marcus’ status.

He is delighted, in this moment, to learn that he was wrong.

…….

  
  


Clarke is up and out walking bright and early, the morning before her wedding. She thinks that a rather sensible choice. She wants to see her betrothed, and she wants to get some fresh air and exercise, so she sets out striding across the fields towards The Arbours. And besides which, she muses, it is for the best that she should become more closely acquainted with the estate she will one day help to manage.

The fact that she has known every last ditch and furrow of the land around these parts since she was a girl is neither here nor there.

She finds that she is not surprised when she sees a rather familiar figure riding towards her. She could easily have guessed, she thinks, that Bellamy would want to see her this morning almost as much as she would be desperate to see him.

“What a shock to see you here.” He teases, drawing his horse to a halt and swinging from the saddle to kiss her soundly on the lips.

She simply smiles, speechless, for a moment. His kisses still have that effect on her, for the most part. She wonders whether she will grow more coherent once she has grown used to them - or whether she will find herself even more at a loss for words, tomorrow night, when they meet in the marriage bed.

“I was just coming to call on you.” He says.

She looks him up and down. He’s wearing the same outfit he was wearing the morning before he left on his tour, she observes. And there’s something she’s been feeling curious about for a while, now, and she resolves that this is perhaps the moment to ask the question.

“The morning before your tour - the rose garden morning. Were you coming to - to _call on me_?” She asks with careful emphasis.

“As a formal call? With tea and flirtation? Yes.” He says easily.

“I wish I had known that at the time.”

“It took me ages to decide what to wear.” He jokes, tone confiding.

“I remember I thought you quite handsome in your smart clothes.” She offers, flushing although she knows that flushing at this point is really rather foolish.

He smirks slightly. “Hmm. Would _these_ happen to be the same smart clothes?”

“You look even more handsome now I know I am to marry you tomorrow.” She concludes pertly.

He grins. “I could scarcely believe how beautiful you looked that morning. It meant the world to me, to have you walk over to take your leave of me. I was so worried you didn’t care.”

“Never that. I cared too much and did not know what to do.” She remembers ruefully.

“All that is past now.” He tells her firmly, running a gentle finger over her cheek. “Where to now, Princess? Am I to take you home so I can pay my call on you?”

She shakes her head. “I think we shall take a walk together. Walking together the morning before life-changing events is a habit of ours, is it not?”

He laughs. “Does twice make a habit?”

“I hope so. It suits us, I think. Any event feels much more manageable when it is preceded by walking and talking with one’s closest friend.”

He nods. “I quite agree. Do I take that to mean that you are feeling… nervous about the morning?”

“No.” She answers at once, calm and confident. “Not nervous. I have every faith in you, and I am certain we will deal well together. It is simply that it is a big step, and I am glad to be taking it with a friend.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Silence falls. Clarke is quite content to let it. This is a warm, peaceful kind of silence and she spends some of it on reaching up to kiss her future husband softly.

“How far do you wish to walk?” Bellamy asks, at length.

Clarke smiles slightly. They have not walked _anywhere_ , yet. They have stood and spoken and kissed, but not moved from the spot they met.

“To the rose garden?” She suggests.

“To the rose garden.”

They set out, hand in hand, Bellamy’s horse led along behind them. And as they walk, Clarke finds herself wondering whether _Rose_ might be a suitable name for a daughter, one day.

This is, after all, a fine morning to look towards the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
